A/N: Sorry this chapter took a while getting out. Trying to stick to a two week update schedule definitely isn't working out on my end. But I'll get there eventually. Plus this chapter ended up being quite lengthy.
*Really Important*: Just got some warnings for this chapter. There's some moments of implied SA and extreme violence toward the end of this chapter, as well as mentions to suicide, trafficking and the abuse of minors. I'll put in a warning where it's most descriptive and feel free to skip it as I've written the more generalized parts to make sense without the triggering details.
Samuel Dudek - Being a superhero is arguably a tough job. Honestly, I wouldn't like to be one.
Guest - Oh she's definitely gotta get her act together.
Till next time,
D.L.D
Chapter Three: Skeletons
Becoming a hermit seemed to be Marinette's only response to the bombshell of information dropped by Abyss. For several weeks, subsisting off deliveries and helpful check-ins from relatives, she had holed herself away, settled within her cocoon of blankets and fluffy pillows, laptop out and every possible blog and news feed channel pulled up on her screen.
Ever since Abyss had shown her the truth, everything had come to a standstill. Commissions for her company had ground to a halt, new orders placed on standby and current orders finished in a flurry of panic. Appearances in public had been greatly reduced, calling for mass media attention and theories on exactly what was occupying up-and-coming designer Marinette Dupain Cheng's mind. But even if the rest of the world kept speculating, Marinette existed within her own. Her's was a world where everything had come to a halt. Everything just froze.
Even her duty as Ladybug.
Weeks had passed since Marinette had last sported her signature spots. Weeks had passed since she had last seen Chat Noir. Neither of them were out and about anymore; neither of them had bothered to emerge from the shadows ever since their crippling battle against Jinx.
"Try to take it easy," Alya had told her a few days ago, concern etched onto her features as she watched a pale Marinette pour herself a bowl of dinner cereal. "Last week was tough for a lot of us."
Tough had been an understatement. Difficult only placed a tiny dent into the large mountain of problems that Marinette now faced. Due to her own mistakes the world was going to pay. Due to her own naivety, the world was doomed to fall into a state of cataclysmic destruction - much worse than anything Chat Noir had ever been able to do, even when he had been akumatised as Chat Blanc. What was essentially god was planning to exterminate it all. Piece by tiny piece, he was wishing their existence away.
Frowning, Marinette closed her laptop - decorated with the bright custom stickers she had ordered from Nathaniel. Ladybugs and black cats. Goofy, innocent, colourful: they reminded her of how things used to be, how she and Chat Noir believed that they could combat anything together, a pair of clueless children running wild across the city of Paris. Those were the days. Hours spent lounging beneath the silver moon, sharing jokes and occasionally tears.
Back in those days everything could be shared under the silence of night, a thousand burning stars bearing witness to their distraught. Together, huddled against the drafty breeze, they'd attempt to ignore the sorrows of their yesterdays, the tiny failures of their todays, because tomorrow could always be better. Tomorrow would always be brighter. In the end, they - Ladybug and Chat Noir - would always come out triumphant. Good always overcame evil.
Only, that age-old tale had been a lie. One deeply rooted into the twisted fables of society's own rickety structure. Ladybug was not meant to be society's beacon of hope; she was the very symbol of their doom.
Stretching, Marinette allowed the loose sleeves of her grey jumper to pool around her elbows as she stood up from the impromptu nest decorating her bed. Immediately, she felt comfort as her socks hit the floorboards; socked feet were always best for shuffling about the place - depressed or not. Less effort to exert and definitely less thought. Right now the last thing she wanted to do was think about anything.
Aimlessly shuffling about, Marinette allowed her body to carry her around her apartment. One moment she was passing the discarded miracle box on her vanity, filled with the concerned faces of the other kwami, popping out to check on her. Another moment, Marinette was sliding down the hall, feeling static build within her system as she glided toward her kitchen, soft hand skimming the smooth material of her wall.
Finally, she was there, staring at an empty room, thinking about what it used to be like. Normally, at a time like this, she would have been rushing to prep something for lunch. Bubbling on the stove, some sort of pasta would be overcooking, foaming at the pot's rim as the gas flame continued to burn. Beside that, there would be a frying pan, sizzling hotly as Marinette yelped at the oil spluttering, nipping at her arm as she attempted to salvage her nearly ruined veggies. Yes, she always was a terrible cook. Tremendously terrible. Just like how she was tremendously bad at being Ladybug. Clearly those were two things she was never meant to be.
Part of her brain high-fiving itself for the smart observation, Marinette continued to saunter around. At one point she had grabbed a whisk, listening to it sing as she twirled it through the air, passing through the doorway that joined her living room and kitchen.
"Damn it!" Marinette cursed, watching as the whisk sailed through the air, a sad whistle of defeat as it plummeted onto her coffee table. Something was bound to go wrong - even with her aimless wandering. Something always went wrong. Why would it be impossible for the whisk to sail out of her hands?
Releasing a hefty sigh, Marinette shook her head as she went to retrieve her whisk. Only, she paused as she spotted the TV remote beside it, its plastic material an enticing glint within the faint sunlight that seeped through her cotton curtains. TV. News. More news meant knowing more. Knowing more meant being something more, contributing something more, that could lead to finally - finally - feeling like she could crack this.
There was no trace of hesitation as she picked up the remote, commanding her TV to flicker to life. Instantly, she was faced with Nadja Chamack, much older now than she had been in previous years, staring at the camera with a somber expression.
Over the years the presenter had grown much more staunch and solemn, shifting from the once gossip-like format of her previous shows to more mature and informative ones. Still, Nadja was Nadja; she'd never ditch her love of sensationalism. Today appeared to be no different, Marinette's TV bursting to life in order to display the opening headline to today's main topic: "Is this the end of the era of Ladybug?".
For the past several weeks, that question had been looping around Marinette's skull. As she shuffled around her empty apartment, stared vacantly at the steam curling from her shower, the young woman had been contemplating that question every waking moment of every day of the past several weeks. Over a month ago, Ladybug had failed Paris. Nearly two months ago, Marinette had failed at the one job she had always been guaranteed to succeed at.
Ladybug had failed to restore the damage done; Paris, for the first time in history, had crumbled against the sheer power of a super villain. Ever since the emergence of Camille and the Chaos miraculous, everything had been skewed and tipped right on its head. Rather ironic since she had the miraculous of Chaos - but that was a point for another time.
Frowning, Marinette immediately fixed onto the currently playing segment, hyper-fixated on the now crow's-feet-sporting reporter and the main headline for her report. Surely Nadja wouldn't want to rock the boat too much, right? Right.
"For some time, the people of Paris have been speculating that Ladybug, the famed heroine of Paris, has outlived her purpose," Nadja sure didn't hold back in her opening statement. No Marinette felt the punch of that one head-on, her gut feeling airless as she could only press her lips tightly together. "In recent years, both Ladybug and Chat Noir have been known to take a much more relaxed approach to their roles as heroes. From charity events to reducing their hours on patrol, the famed duo have been stirring up quite a lot of unrest within the city due to their seemingly relaxed stance in preserving peace."
Already, Marinette could feel herself bristling. Tensing. That approach wasn't her fault - not when there wasn't any true threat after Hawkmoth was gone. Peace had reigned Paris - hell, the whole of France - for the past four years. Superheroes were only really required during times of extreme unrest and injustice. Now failing, when that happened, when Jinx appeared to raze nearly half of the city, was something people could point fingers at. Marinette herself blamed everything that happened a month ago on herself.
"Of course, Chat Noir was never one to depend on. He always was the weaker link of the pair," Nadja continued, oblivious to the brewing thoughts within her audience. If she were, she would have flinched at the sharp downturn to Marinette's lips as she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "But while he is integral to the process - as Ladybug often says - Chat Noir was never what people looked to. Ladybug herself is what symbolises France' stand against super villains and their wishes to trample all over us. Ladybug is what gives us all hope. She inspires us to become a better society."
Now it was sounding better - completely off-base, but better. Many people did idolize Ladybug, even though Marinette saw her alter ego as someone just as flawed and imperfect as the next person. Everyone had their baggage. Some had simple ones like a bad habit or destructive behaviours; others, like Ladybug, had an entire breakdown after finding out that she had been making one huge mistake for the past four years. Potato. Po-tah-toe. More or less the same.
But discrediting Chat Noir? Discrediting her own knowledge that Chat Noir was indeed just as important as her? Nadja was going against everything Ladybug had ever told her.
But then, in one horrible moment, it all clicked: "But how can Ladybug be a symbol for peace if she has failed at her own job?"
Airless. Spineless. In that moment Marinette was a puddle in the middle of her living room, shaking at the limbs and sniveling at the nose. Tears were gathering in her eyes as harsh breaths rattled in and out of her lungs. Now she was back at the crime scene - her own crime scene, caused by her own naivety - staring at the sea of bodies clawing and scraping at her, moaning in their rancid tones and whispers to be fixed. But she couldn't do it. She could never do it.
Ladybug couldn't bring back those written to be dead.
"The attack which occurred nearby Île de la Cité several weeks ago resulted in an unseen death toll of at least five hundred people," Nadja wasn't pausing in her attack. Not now. Helpless, Marinette could only watch as images flickered past, showcasing the city during the attack. "Many more people have been reported as missing and the damage caused to the local citizens will forever stay within their hearts," Now it was sobbing families, people wrapping each other up within soothing hugs.
Nadja, crowning the overall dissatisfaction, wore a somber grimace, "If this is what a Paris protected by Ladybug looks like, many are saying that they do not wish to remain within it. Ladybug, if you are listening, the public is delivering its verdict: it is time for you to retire."
No. No, no, no, no. No. Marinette couldn't just stop here, not with the earrings in her ears and Chat Noir's ring on Adrien's finger. Those two jewels were the two things that locked away the very force that was waiting, anticipating, for the day when someone would make the final, sealing wish. Now that Ladybug was useless as a hero, Marinette needed to keep the world safe in another way. Adrien needed to know. Oh god, Adrien didn't know!
Already, Marinette could feel her mind spinning. Too many thoughts were funneling in, too many thoughts and feelings and voices that just needed to shut the fuck up. Right now, Marinette needed silence. She needed clarity. She needed to fix this. Now.
"In other news, Chloe Bourgeois- "
Instantly, Nadja was cut off, Marinette frowning as she wiped at her reddened eyes and pressed the power button on her remote. News and media always had the most to say whenever the tiniest thing went wrong. News and media didn't have the entire story; they didn't know about the chaos kwami and how he had told Marinette all about Gimmi. No-one else knew about the full truth. No-one else was given the full truth. No-one but Camille.
Why Camille? Why... why did Abyss choose her, a past victim of Hawkmoth and clearly a mentally unstable psycho who could definitely use a lot of medical, professional help? There had to have been a reason. There had to have been something, deep down, that led Abyss to Camille. Something important had to be behind that attack, all the time ago, forever tarnishing Ladybug and forever changing Marinette's entire life.
"If you want the truth you have to seek it," Alya's voice rang within Marinette's mind, reminding her of the laptop. A gift from Alya because Ladybug could always brush up on her cyber skills - especially with the increasing advancement of cyber crime these days. One quick search on there would give her the world. One search would put her one step closer to fixing her mistakes.
Plan set in her mind, Marinette marched out of her living room, determined to figure out why - just why - Abyss had chosen Camille. And, to do that, she would have to do some digging. Who exactly was Camille Bisset?
*This part contains suicide*
"Papa!"
Once her voice had been a high-pitched squeal of joy. Running about the empty theater seats, arms spread like a plane taking off, Camille had soared about the space with so much energy. Happy - things had been so happy back then. Beautiful, sparkling confetti and the ruffled flutter of doves' wings had dominated her entire early life; so much pure joy had been part of her life.
Barreling into her father, the young girl laughed. Two tiny arms wrapped around his skinny frame, careful not to knock his prized top hat off his head. Never could she knock the top hat off his head.
One of his hands would always ruffle her brown hair, messing up the well-brushed strands with flowers pulled from his sleeves or a card tucked over her left ear. There always was a surprise with her father. There always was something to look forward to.
Growing up with him had been a joy. Sitting in one of the best front row seats, eyes aglow with wonder and awe, Camille would always brim with buzzing energy whenever it was showtime. All eyes would be fixed on him. Every gaze within the room would be pulled to the stage, to the wonderful suit-clad man in the middle of it, capturing everyone's attention as he conjured miracles from what was seemingly thin air.
Sometimes he would pull out a rabbit. Other times he produced a string of cards, fluttering in the air as he magically managed to guess someone's lucky number. Most of all, what Camille loved most, was when he'd call a volunteer onstage, ready to perform his final, grandest act: the magic mirror that distorted reality.
That mirror, filled with so much magic and mystery, had always captured her mind. Looking into it, one would see another world - unique to them and only them. Some people saw worlds filled with mythical creatures; others saw worlds filled with unimaginable riches. When she had looked into the mirror, young and impressionable and giddy, Camille had seen her father, onstage, extending a hand for her to take it.
"Papa..."
Things had taken a downturn. While the success was gathering, hurtling down the hill like a gigantic rolling stone, everything else was heading for a terrible, terrible end.
Years had passed and in those years she had little time to think about the theater and all the acts she had been missing. Occupied with finishing school, trying her best to be something worthy of continuing her father's legacy, Camille had buried the wonder and merriment that came with her father and his occupation. There was no time for magic. There was no time for games. Prepubescent Camille had other matters on her mind.
Things had never been better. Money was flowing their way. More and more people were stopping her father on the street, asking for autographs as they clamoured for the chance to meet a real magician in real life.
Fame had never been thought of as a dangerous thing. When she was younger, stars filling her head and eyes, Camille had seen her father's fame as something he should have enjoyed more often. More money meant more comfort. More comfort meant more happiness. Happiness was something that he had always aimed to achieve - to spread to his own audience.
Was that why he was such a sad man? Spending all of his own happiness, loaning it to others, did her papa end up running dry on his own? Perhaps. Or maybe others stole it.
First it was the letters. Sent after shows and stamped with the seals of jealousy and envy. Trembling hands would always comb through the mail, hiding those letters from her whenever Camille was around. Really, she should have seen it sooner. Really, she should have realised that the letters marked with red, sent from different addresses, all contained bad news. But she was young, idiotic. She let herself believe.
"Papa?"
One day she had come back to the theater, weary from the long hours of a tedious school day. Opening that front door to silence was nothing new, but the silence that hung in their second home was too eerie. Much too eerie.
Curious, worried, Camille had decided to investigate. Dumping her bag in the main entrance hall, not bothering to shrug off her jacket, she had clomped up the back staircase, journeyed along the narrow corridor and arrived to the main stage. Whenever he was down these days, drowning his spirits in a chemical supplement, she could always find him there. Hunched over on his single chair, he would erase the aches and pains of today.
Wasted. Withered. Now her father was nothing more than a crumbled man, chipped apart by countless scathing mouths, all fueled by green-eyed envy.
Onstage he was still wonderful. Full of flourish and flair he produced objects out of nowhere, spreading that same wonder and joy with his soulful magic. That wonderful smile would still push his cheeks upwards, spreading its joy and mirth. But that was all he had left: the soulful magic containing the remnants of his withering soul. That stage, before the audience, was where he lived now; outside of that stage, even with her, Camille's papa was nothing more than a broken, hurting man.
"Papa?"
One thud. Automatically the curtains swung open and Camille felt all her blood rush down to her toes.
A lone chair. A lone man. A lone auditorium filled with a lone scene that only spelled out chaos - pure and tragic chaos.
No longer was he a smiling man, grinning away at the crowd as he bowed with his wonderful flourish and pride, black suit shiny and tailcoats pointy with an almost cheeky edge. That hat, so perfect and lovely and his, no longer tipped at a jaunty angle when he greeted his audience. On the floor, scattered with the limp coat and ruined deck of cards, was where his prized hat lay. And papa?
Pale, mouth agape, swinging from side to side: Camille's father hung from the ceiling, taut material suspending him in the air. Bulging eyes, a neck filled with scrape marks and the red swelling to his face told her everything she needed to know. There was no need to check. There was no need to even hope. Papa was dead. Papa had hung himself.
And they had made him do it.
"Stop laughing!" She'd roared into the audience, glowering at the flashing glare of a camera's recording light. Fresh tears poured from her eyes, scathing and scalding as she desperately rushed in front of her father, wishing to protect him even in death, "Stop it now!"
However the laughter continued, chiming around the room like an awful dinner gong. In the middle of it all remained tiny Camille, powerless and defenseless against it all. One tiny girl against a sea of humanity's own cruelty.
*End of warning*
Digging around on the internet had never been so tough before. Even when she had first began to do this, voicing her worries about going to jail to a nonchalant Alya, Marinette had found it a lot easier to navigate the webpages and sites needed in her quest for knowledge. Everything had always linked together quite nicely; one site always fed into another, which fed into another, which then linked to another three.
After Alya had shown her the trick, Marinette soon became a habitual researcher on the backstories behind akumatised people. Somehow, someway, knowing about their struggles, the root causes of their akumatisation, made her feel as if she could remedy that. Awareness came from the information provided through her digging online. Ladybug became a lot more effective with repeat offenders whenever she knew the context of their situations.
Overall, digging online had never really failed Marinette. In the past it was there to patch up her failures as Ladybug. In the present, it would also serve as her chance - her opportunity - to fix her biggest mistake yet.
Camille Bisset, however, seemed to know how to cover up her digital paper trail. That was proving to be Marinette's biggest roadblock so far.
Sat at her dining table, a cup of warm tea cooling beside her, Marinette was opening up the old, worn-down laptop that Alya had gifted her years ago. Peeling off its surface were the old stickers from her lycée days, made once again by Nathaniel, but instead sporting caricatures of herself and her former classmates. Front a centre was one of Marinette in a suit of armour, carrying a dress-clad and Adrien. Beside that one was Nino balancing a stack of records and a grinning Alya, brandishing her phone.
Currently pulled up on the screen was the main webpage for all public information available about akumas and their civilian personas. Countless names, pictures and other types of basic information were available, including their jail sentences (if they were highly dangerous repeat offenders). Marinette, determined to find out the basics before digging deeper, was currently on Magician's page. Which had the grand total of zero useful information. Not even her name.
"It seems Camille's good at covering her tracks," Tikki, a hearty chunk of a macaron between her hands, stated. Swallowing her macaron, she sighed, "Perhaps it is a sign to let it go, Marinette. You'll simply wear yourself out puzzling over everything."
"But I have to," Marinette insisted, now deciding to move onto other means of information grabbing. If legal means were not getting her far enough, she'd just have to use the tricks she'd picked up from Alya over the years. All it took was the press of a few keys. One. Two. Three. Now her screen was displaying something completely different, open source code and other forms of data stored within the website's servers now flooding Marinette's screen.
Websites such as the Akuma Wiki had always had weaker security. Maintained by fans, containing open-source code, it was always a breeze to get past the security measures. Nothing good was ever stored on it. But, to Marinette, even the tiny crumbs gained from the website's basic information could be a goldmine.
Basic information gained - which was literally her name, Camille Bisset - Marinette turned off her trusty laptop and decided to factory reset it. Closing all software, letting out a sigh, she pressed the power button and refresh key. While her laptop reset, she grabbed her tea, took a huge gulp to soothe her nerves, and went to grab the forbidden USB that Alya always teased her about. That damned USB that had saved Ladybug a little too often.
From the table, Tikki only watched as Marinette returned, pink USB in hand. In a matter of moments, she had already set up the device, throwaway emails in place and a strange username replacing her actual username. All too soon the laptop screen was displaying a blank search engine page, the cursor blinking in its monotonous rhythm as Marinette took another sip of tea and plugged her USB into the port.
"You know I don't like this," Tikki piped up from her spot, wide blue eyes staring grimly at the laptop.
"I know, Tikki," Marinette responded, letting out another sigh. Instantly it was followed by a sip of soothing tea. "But this is necessary. I need to know why Abyss chose to trust Camille, especially with how dangerous she was."
Deciding to offer no more arguments, Tikki only shook her head as Marinette's laptop screen filled with a new image. One tiny death figure, grinning from beneath its hood, popped up in the corner of Marinette's screen. In their hands was a tiny scythe that jiggled with every step they took, growing larger and larger, taking up more and more space, until all Marinette was staring at was a pair of darkened holes that served as eyes.
"Eep!" Tikki jumped as maniacal laughter filled the air, jarring her senses as Marinette only shrugged. In response Tikki frowned, shaking her head even more with obvious disapproval, "See, this is why I don't like this!"
Ignoring the kwami, Marinette only watched as the reaper faded in a burst of bright flame. Now it was a tiny dot, settled in the laptop's taskbar and indicating that it was now time for the next step: the second USB. Humming as she counted out a good sixty seconds, Marinette drummed her fingertips against the tabletop as she pulled out her second USB (a green one) from her pocket. After sixty seconds, she pulled out the pink one, trading it for the green USB.
Flickering, a loading symbol now overtook the screen, its track filled with a bright green instead of the usual bright blue mid-section. Racing and racing, it kept rotating. Until, finally, the entire screen flashed white and Marinette was face-to-face with the familiar sight of her third-favourite website.
Wasting no time, she immediately entered her research subject: Camille Bisset. Entering the search term, watching as the green cursor completed its circuits, she eventually was provided with a plethora of results. Camille Bisset: famed journalist from Guinea. Camille Bisset: the story of France's forgotten girls. Camille Bisset: Missing girl from Switzerland. Camille Bisset: Paris' most successful con artist.
Instantly, Marinette clicked on the third option. That had to be Jinx. That just had to be her. No other Camille Bisset seemed to fit the bill. Not the journalist, not the forgotten girls and definitely not the missing girl. If that final option was true, then Camille definitely had some kind of interesting story to share; perhaps not everything she told Marinette would be an inherent lie - especially if she was a victim of trafficking.
Pulling up the first webpage, Marinette was immediately provided with more information. A birthday, place of birth (registered in France and giving the names of both Camille's parents) and places of education were displayed for her to see. Beside them was a picture of Camille herself, a brown-haired, blue-eyed young girl who gave the camera an uncertain smile. Officially, her nationality was of Swiss and French descent.
Noting down the new information, Marinette opened a fresh tab and began a new search: Camille Bisset, Charles Bisset. This term popped up a new thread of information, most being links to videos and displaying to Marinette that Camille's father was indeed a magician. That explained a lot about her outfit choices...
Clicking on the first link available, Marinette opened up a video. Immediately, she pursed her lips, eyes wide and blood tingling in her veins as she could only mutter out one single, sound, "Oh."
Bright and colourful at first, the clip began with an introduction to a magic show. People cheered and clapped as the man onstage strode about its wooden boards, glittering confetti and sparkling glitter raining down all around him. Everything had seemed normal at first; everything had been normal at first. But, just as quickly as the man onstage had opened with flair and sparkles and smiles, that scene turned sour.
Cheers morphed into heckles and sneers, the onstage props swapped out for a chair and a chord of rope that hung from the rafters above. Even with the bad quality of the camera, Marinette could make out the tiny child in the wings. Wide-eyed, uncertain, she was hesitating backstage as she watched her father, smiling as if the show must go on, climbing up onto the chair. Gracefully, he placed the noose around his neck. Ungracefully he fell, the chair kicked from beneath him and his top hat flying across the stage floor.
Howls filled the air, howls of laughter, howls of surprise and, most of all, howls of horror. Tiny, ferocious, that girl had ran out onstage, snarling at the recording phone and yelling for everyone to stand back from the stage. Tears poured from her eyes, illuminated by her reddened face as she stood before the limp figure of her father, swinging from side to side. Swaying like banner hung from a high ceiling.
"Oh," Nothing could leave Marinette's system. Not after that. Camille - at such a young age - had been pushed right into the deep end of the world's most horrible realities. Really, it was no wonder why she viewed the world through such a dark lens.
But that wasn't it. More and more, as Marinette dug, more and more horrors were being unearthed. Like skeletons dragged out of a closet, like bodies exhumed from graves, Camille's past grew more horrifying the farther along you went. Not only did her father commit suicide right in front of her, but after that she had been shipped off to her mother's - who definitely wasn't the maternal kind. Camille was admitted to hospital for a broken arm. Countless safeguarding issues had been flagged up. Neglect was consistently mentioned. Nothing was done. Nothing at all.
Still, Camille's inheritance from her father was drained. More hospital admissions followed. Soon Camille was ten years old, celebrating her tenth birthday from the confines of a hospital bed. Once again, her mother was nowhere in sight. Reportedly she was out celebrating New Year's Eve.
"This certainly isn't great," Marinette frowned as she looked at the medical report, brows furrowed as she scanned over the descriptions. From the sound of it, Camille had not been in a great mental state at that time either. Everything was going downhill. Everything had gone downhill ever since Charles Bisset had hung himself, in front of a crowd and before his very own daughter. What had driven him to do that? Why did he do it near Camille?
Those answers weren't pleasant. All too soon Marinette was on the deep-end, right in Camille's early teens. Now she was no longer with her mother, traded off into Germany with a man who had never been mentioned before. This country was where she began to sport a blonde-haired look - most likely to distinguish herself from the missing Camille Bisset, the Swiss girl who had gone missing after being admitted to hospital.
Finding another link, Marinette clicked on it. She had to know more. She needed to know more. How much worse could it possibly get?
"Oh god," Instantly, she paled. Even she, a hero well-used to the sight of gore and extreme violence, had never seen something as horrible as this cruel and torturous attack. Even a month ago, watching as people imploded as balls of red, wet flesh and artificial sinkholes swallowed screaming bodies whole, Marinette had felt much more comfortable. Much more able to hold in the contents of her already semi-empty stomach.
Screaming filled every moment of the background. Squashed into a corner, a tiny girl - no older nine - trembled as she flattened every crevice of her quaking body against the peeling plaster walls. Looming before her was a man, leather belt in hand and back turned to the camera. But Marinette didn't need to know his face to know his intentions. Angry welts on the girl's skin, the trickle of blood that spilled from her tiny, crooked nose, gave it all away.
Roughly, his hand engulfed a third of the girl's arm. Once again she yelped, a mixture of pain and fear as her free hand clawed and scraped at the peeling wall. Blood, red and sticky, left streaks against the off-white paint. Smudged fingerprints - her fingerprints - remained as the man firmly dragged her toward the other end of the room. Halfway through the process, the girl's shirt had ended up on the floor.
Once she noticed that, Marinette instantly clicked off. No more needed to be seen - no more had to be seen. What Marinette had just witnessed, caught on camera and most likely spread around countless pedophile rings was more than enough. That one video, filled with so much pain and anguish, so much pure terror and paralyzing fear, was more than enough to fill the gaps left in Camille Bisset's dreadful childhood.
Now Marinette understood: there was a reason why Camille was the way she was. There was a reason why she didn't care for humanity. But, to know for sure, Marinette would have to explore her time at the orphanage a little more deeply. She had to confirm that Camille was one of those girls. If so, then a lot more about Abyss and Camille would make sense; Ladybug would finally have a solution to a problem she'd thought she could never fix.
*This part has mentions of SA, violence and abuse*
No-one took her seriously. Even as Camille kept going back to the police station, notes in hand and evidence on her phone, she was repeatedly turned down. No-one cared about what she had to say. No-one cared about what she had seen. No-one cared about her father, a gifted magician who had only wanted to spread joy, brought down to his knees by a group of wicked, relentless figures who had only wanted to see him crumble.
"Your father's death was ruled as suicide," Was the repeated answer to her constant begging. "It would be a waste of resources to open an investigation for such a clear case. No-one else is to blame but your father and his own demons."
Her father. His demons. Everyone kept referring to his death as one caused by his own mind, brought upon him by his own self-doubt and depression. But Camille knew better. Those letters, the heckling, the constant harassment from repeat offenders... Those demons that everyone else thought was all contained within her father's mind were real people. Cruel people. Calloused people. People that didn't care about how she would feel because of their own actions.
But, then again, no-one seemed to care about Camille. Not even her own mother.
"I am alone."
Months had passed since her father's death and things were just getting worse. At times, Camille wished she was back in that dreadful moment - the turning point in her life - staring in horror at the figure of her father, eyes bulging, face red and top hat halfway across the stage. Living with her mother was a nightmare; all she ever cared about was the money, the saved up fund that her father had always worked so hard for.
That inheritance was meant to hers. All of that money had been written up as Camille's, to ensure that she was kept in education and could live comfortably should anything ever happen to her father. Aside from his top hat, that money was all Camille had left of him. Everything else had been sold, burned or destroyed in the hurricane that was her mother's overly controlling nitpicking and 'cleansing' of the depressing reminders of the past.
Clara Keller had never wanted to be a mother. Camille's father had always made that obvious, telling Camille about how the divorce had been finalized days after their daughter's birth. Motherhood was never an agenda of hers. Being a mother was a foreign concept to the woman.
Ever since her father's death, Camille had been alone. Getting ready for school, caring for herself, were duties that rested on her and only her. In the background her mother would flit about, returning home a sobbing, drunken mess and leaving Camille to wipe off her runny makeup, help her into the shower and tidy the mess she made as she stumbled in on her ridiculously stilt-like high heels.
To say her mother was a mess would be an understatement. Clara was a complete jumble of scrambled, tangled and intertwined messes, built up throughout her years of emotional clutter and the wish to simply live as a carefree, single young woman, when really she was anything but. Clara was a mother. Clara had been married. Clara was meant to be legally responsible for the seven-year-old girl now left under her care for the next eleven years.
But did Clara care? No. She only cared about the money. Until the money ran dry.
"Is your mother around, Camille?" Raising a brow, one of the nurses that rotated around the children's ward gently asked the famous question. Ever since she had been admitted to hospital, after an accident that included a roof, some skates and her father's top hat, Camille's mother had been more or less out of sight.
"I am alone," Was Camille's response. That was the only response she knew how to give. Clara never bothered to visit unless it was to sign her out; Clara never bothered with anything unless it was mandatory, involved pushing her agenda to live like a young, free woman, or was linked to money. Otherwise, you wouldn't find Clara for days. You'd be lucky if she even answered a single phone call - even if it was about Camille.
"I see," Frowning, the nurse left Camille to her own devices. Again. Like always. Even in a ward filled with countless other people, patients, staff and concerned visitors, Camille was always left alone. Camille would always be alone.
Maybe that was why the sudden news of her move to Germany hadn't been such a surprise. No. Clara had never wanted her around. All of the money saved in her inheritance could only last so long. Even just being around, Camille was seen as nuisance to Clara; her very existence symbolized the very life that she had never wanted. Motherhood was never her agenda. Loving Camille was never her goal. So Camille was sold.
Freshly signed out of hospital, cast still on her arm, Camille was immediately driven to the airport. In that public bathroom, wincing at the sting of hydrogen peroxide, she was also made to dye her hair a bright blonde. Only one tiny suitcase was given to her; one tiny suitcase was all that Camille had left of her past, the tiny treasures stored and kept safe from her distant past with her now long gone father.
"Make sure you behave," Clara had said, a stern look in her eye as she held Camille in place. "They are good people. They will look after you well."
Looking into her mother's eyes, Camille truly wanted to question if Clara believed that lie or simply wanted to make herself believe it. Too selfish, she couldn't keep looking after her daughter. Too selfish, she also didn't want to be incriminated in the crime. Ordinary people put their children up for adoption. Ordinary people did not ship their daughters off to another country, dye their hair blonde and hand them over to a strange man with a not-so-friendly face.
"You can believe what you want," Camille had shrugged, eyes filled with disgust as she pulled away from her mother's grasp. "But I won't behave. I am alone. The only person I have to look after, to satisfy, is myself."
And that had been the last time she had seen Clara. That had been the last time she was in France for... well, too many years. At times, she had wanted to cry about it, the loss of her physical connection to her father. Paris had become a blurry memory to her, its streets and sights all a jumble of fantasy and reality in her mind. Much of it had to be replaced. To survive in her new world, the environment of the orphanage, Camille had to become sharp. Someone had to protect herself.
Being in the orphanage sucked. Rigorous chores and stern punishments reigned over her days there. Many of the other children had been quiet when she had first arrived there. At first, Camille had questioned why. After her first week there, sent to bed by the pseudo-comforting whispers of a strange man, cold fingers prodding at her body, she had quickly learned why. Saying no wasn't an option - unless you liked having dark marks and crooked noses.
Shrinking into yourself was the only way to stay sane. Following orders, cleaning and cooking and helping when needed were ways to keep yourself safe. But Camille had always been a rule breaker. Conforming had never been part of her genetic code.
"Leave them alone!" Standing before a quivering group of younger girls, shivering in the thin material of their grayed vests and underwear, she would not back down. Those young girls didn't need to go through what she went through. Those young girls could escape this system unscathed, untouched, if she - already damaged and bent and broken - could absorb all the possible pain and anguish they could go through.
"Move out of the way girl," Seething, their caretaker grew red-tipped ears. This was a sign to back down. This was her sign to apologise.
"Take me instead," Camille bit back, a fierce bark let through her gritted teeth. Not wavering from her stance, determination blazing within her blue eyes, she scowled. "Leave the children out of it and I will do as you say."
That had been her own term. Surprisingly, they had agreed and each night, every night without fail, Camille would finish up her chores for the day and make her way to the dreaded attic room. Every time she was made to strip, shivering from the biting cold as she was washed down with freezing water and dried off with a faded grey towel. Dressing in the nightgown, she would always flinch at the sharp sting of the IV drip. Blinking, in the corner, that evil camera would always be on, recording her reactions and recording her suffering as the inevitable punishment would come.
Sometimes she would watch, brought to another room in another building, staring at the sterile silver equipment. Another child, taken from another country, from another family, would be strapped to a surgical table, groaning and eyes rolling as the scalpel pierced their skin. At the end Camille would see the result, a fresh organ or a newly 'healed' child. Those children never last very long; they often died by the end of the week.
"That wasn't the deal," Camille had said one day, glaring daggers at her caretaker as she refused to strip down. Their trade off had been that she would take the punishments of the younger children; she would have to live with the rotating men slipping into the room, cruel fingers prodding at her skin. Witnessing the other atrocities of her orphanage had not been the deal. Watching others die had not been the deal.
"You don't have the power to make any true terms," Was the response she was given. Cold, chilled, like jelly left to cool in a fridge. "The only thing saving you from that operating table is how useful you are. You inspire those other kids to stay in line and so they are easier to control. You are the reason why a child ends up on that table every week; you are what makes them so easy to manipulate."
Ending up on that table suddenly felt like a blessing. Getting to escape this hell, ruled by a circle of adults that were more demon than human, was the finest gift she could have ever received. But every night Camille was let down, stripped, changed and led to that room once more. One week. Two months. Three years. By the time she was fifteen, she was simply counting down the days, waiting until she had turned sixteen.
On her sixteenth birthday, her final day trapped in this shithole, Camille had hoped that she would be the next one on the table. That was what she had expected. That was what she had always believed to be her end. But instead she was given her suitcase back, tossed out into the cold night like a box of used goods. As the front door was slammed in her face, echoing with the force of the slam against the door frame, Camille could only blink.
Now she was free once more. Now she could live her life as she pleased. But how exactly could she live? What was living like? So many years spent around so many different people and none of them, not one, wanted her to stick around.
Standing in the dark, left behind in the biting cold, Camille couldn't hold back her silent tears as she began to follow the snowy road, "I am alone."
*End of warning*
Sickening. Everything about all of this was just so... sickening. Marinette couldn't help but shiver as she looked deeper into Camille's past, the countless rings from organ trafficking to sex trafficking linked to that one central orphanage. So much had gone on beneath Marinette's own nose. So much had gone on, on a much broader scheme than she had ever seen before. Millions of children, billions of children, were affected by that one organisation. So many children.
At the head of it all, to Marinette's own surprise, was someone that she knew. Familiar, well-known, his face was one she often bumped into whenever she attended public events. He was a public figure, a well-respected and well-recognised face. So many people looked up to him. So many people, oblivious to the dark truth swimming beneath the surface, idolized and praised this man with every word that slipped from their lips.
Part of Marinette couldn't believe it. Part of her didn't want to believe it. But not believing the truth when it was laid out right in front of you was stupid.
"I will kill you all for taking everything from me," Those words came from a girl no older than sixteen. Sat in court, her hair a shiny red, she wore a matching scowl on her scarlet lips. "You will all pay for ruining so my life."
That one court date ultimately came to nothing. That girl, so consumed by rage and anger and anguish, was left to fade into the background: Camille Bisset, France's forgotten girl. Camille Bisset, missing girl from Switzerland. Camille Bisset, Paris' most successful con artist. Most people didn't even know that this woman was one who had lived a life made up of so many lives. Once she was a french girl, living with her magician father. Next she was a Swiss girl, reported missing after her mother had signed her out of hospital. Finally, she was Camille - Magician - a new woman who had no obvious link to her past.
Honestly, it was all baffling. But even with how mind-boggling this news was, Marinette could make sense of it all. This all explained why Camille was the way she was; this explained why Camille was so frustrated with the world, brought to a point where she wanted to end the world. Through every part of her life, Camille had been wronged by society. At every turn those who were meant to protect her ended up being her most painful wounds.
If Marinette was in her situation, she most definitely wouldn't hesitate to raze half a city. Why would she care? No-one had cared about Camille, about all those other children, experimented and abused and forgotten, left to fade into the dark shadows of history. So why should they care about anyone else?
"Marinette?"
Turning around, Marinette came face-to-face with her own mother, Sabine's concerned brows pinching inwards. In her hands was a container - most likely filled with soup - and her pursed lips gave away the question that wanted to escape from her lips.
Nevertheless, Marinette was quick to close all of her open tabs, slamming her laptop screen downwards and springing up from her post at her dining table. She had forgotten about the spare key. She had also forgotten about her mother's tendency to visit whenever Marinette failed to meet her weekly quota of bakery drop-ins.
"Mama!" Instantly, Marinette was quick to distract from her laptop, scurrying toward her mother at the speed of light. Gently taking the container from Sabine, she hurried toward her kitchen, "Did you make me soup again? I told you not ambush me with any surprise visits."
"I know but I couldn't help myself," Sabine smiled. Even with the smile, concern remained on her features, tugging at her eyebrows and crinkling her grey eyes. "You didn't visit again this week and it's a mother's job to worry. I had to make sure that you were alright Marinette."
"A video call would've been just as good," Marinette responded, her voice a shallow echo from the kitchen as she set the container down on her counter. Releasing a sigh, mostly because she couldn't be bothered to divulge exactly why she'd been acting like a recluse, she shook her head. "I am perfectly fine, mama. Tired, stressed out, but perfectly fine. Even Alya sensed that just I need a bit of quiet time."
"And that's what worries me most," Sabine stated, frowning further as Marinette remained silent. Gathering her sleeve around her thumb, she tenderly swept up the remainder of her daughter's tears. "I am a mother, Marinette. Mothers know their children and I know when something is bothering you."
"There is nothing bothering me."
"Are you sure?" Sabine pressed, brows tucking inward with skepticism as she stared at her clamped-up daughter. Nodding toward the now discarded laptop, the peeling stickers still presenting younger, smiling versions of the present Marinette, she continued, "You were crying."
"I was?" Marinette blinked, sniffing as she shook her head. Yes, she must have been. That much upsetting news at once was never a pleasant pill to swallow. Let alone when your mother ambushed you partway through, almost catching you watching what was essentially child experimentation and porn. God, that would have been quite a lot to explain - especially without the additional context of Marinette's secret identity.
"You were," Sabine confirmed. Placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder, she tried once more to break through, "Is everything ok, Marinette?"
No. Nothing was ok. Everything was going wrong and so much that Marinette had thought was right was really wrong. Reality was not the picture-perfect thing that so many people tried to present it to be. Reality was dark. Reality was gritty. Reality held much more shadows within it than you would think at a first glance. Within those shadows there were so many secrets, so many truths, that simply were disgusting. Sickening.
But what was the point in sharing it when no-one would believe you? When no-one, just like with Camille, would truly try to challenge the perpetrators?
"Yes," Swallowing thickly, Marinette nodded. She even added in a strained smile, pulling firmly at the corners of her lips. "I just saw a sad video about the recent attack and it reminded me about something."
That was the excuse. That excuse worked. Because, in reality, no-one would truly believe the story of Camille Bisset. That's why it was truly no wonder, no surprise, why she became Jinx. Who wouldn't after being rejected and outcast by the rest of the world?
